


lock this down

by verity



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Crying Stiles, Humor, Knotting, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 14:29:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1473187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek trusts Stiles. Derek trusts Stiles with his dick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lock this down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blue_rocket_frost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_rocket_frost/gifts).



> thanks as usual to Ashe, muse, collaborator, & favorite bro, and to Dira, Scout, and languisity for audiencing!
> 
>  
> 
> content notes: the "mildly dubious consent" is for lack of negotiation about a sex act with the potential to affect someone's judgment/ability to consent and brief concern about capacity to consent.

Stiles doesn't put it very delicately. "I want to touch your dick," he says, leaning against the wall in the hallway while Derek fumbles his keys in the lock. They've been held hostage in a cramped cell for 24 hours, both of them need a shower, and Derek's apartment was the closest. "I think you want to touch my dick. We could make this happen, you know."

Derek drops his keys.

—

It doesn't go anywhere for a while. Stiles is back from college, but he still lives with his dad; Derek is too embarrassed to have him over to his apartment. He finally got everything out of the storage unit six months ago, but hasn't mustered the strength to unpack it. There's not really space for all the cardboard boxes in his studio, so they're stacked to the ceiling, blocking the stove and the main air vent. Derek's been living off takeout and hot pot ramen and he's going to have to buy a window unit if this goes on any longer. "I don't care," Stiles says the next time they're caught in a compromising position, trapped under a door in a pile of rubble. "You don't have to wine me and dine me, okay, I just—I need to get some."

Derek is trying to shift his poorly-timed erection away from Stiles's matching one. "You have a head injury."

"It's a flesh wound," Stiles says.

The debris above them creaks ominously and Derek tugs Stiles further beneath him. For shelter. Stiles is a breakable, squishy human, as he likes to remind them on occasion, and Derek cares less about their boner proximity than keeping him whole. He shoves Stiles's arm down when Stiles tries to put it around Derek's waist. Stiles sighs. "Are you seriously not even going to let me cop a feel?"

Overhead, Scott says, "I'm _right here_ , guys."

"So am I," Isaac adds. He sounds like he's leering.

Derek sighs.

"Friday," Stiles says. "If we're not crushed under a pile of rubble. Pencil it in your calendar, you paper-loving weirdo."

"I have a phone," Derek says, accidentally elbowing Stiles in the ribs.

—

Derek has spent the last six years enjoying the benefits of celibacy, like less people he cares about dying horribly, usually after trying to murder other people he cares about. Scott, working on his master's in social work with a focus on counseling, says that he's probably struggling with closure. No shit.

Stiles, though—he's someone Derek trusts not to go on a killing spree unless possessed by a fox chaos spirit, someone who won't expect him to unpack any boxes. Out of courtesy, Derek changes the crumb-filled sheets on the bed and does the dishes, and he buys a six-pack of Stiles's favorite beer. Cans say casual, right? Then he waters the half-dead herb garden in the window and scrubs the toilet, so he can feel accomplished, like a real adult.

"Wow, you made the bed, way to class up the joint," Stiles says when he swings open the door. "Look, I got beer." It's Rolling Rock. Derek hates Rolling Rock.

"I got beer, too," he says.

They trade beers and sit on Derek's bed because he has no other furniture aside from wilting cardboard boxes. Stiles hums happily as he pops the tab on his Moose Drool; Derek sips from a bottle of Rolling Rock and tries not wince. He's not that subtle. "I know you're more of a wine guy," Stiles says after a minute of a silence. "I didn't want to make it weird."

"There's Franzia in the fridge," Derek admits.

Stiles grimaces around his mouthful of beer, swallows. "And yet I still want to bone you."

—

They've seen each other naked before, but not intentionally. Grievous wounds were usually involved. There was also an episode of graduation party streaking that Derek politely attempted to ignore. Stiles was young and a pack member, Scott was their alpha, Allison was—Allison. Derek closed his eyes while Lydia and Isaac ogled and refilled their drinks. It's strange having permission to look, to admire. He gets stuck with his t-shirt still half-over his head and Stiles snorts, then blushes. "Don't—I know I'm not exactly—"

"I like how you look," Derek says hastily.

"Oh," Stiles says.

They're naked with their hands on each other and they still haven't kissed. Derek hasn't really done this before: maybe this is just how casual sex goes. Mouths for bottles or dicks only. He puts his hands on Stiles's waist like they're kids at a dance; Stiles skims his fingers up Derek's ribs. "You're so soft here," Stiles says as he presses on a ticklish spot somewhere in the region of Derek's armpit, sounding surprised. Derek tries not to squirm. "You always look like you have, like, 0% body fat. Like Greek yogurt."

"There's full-fat Greek yogurt," Derek says. They're still standing in front of the bed, tortilla chip shards crunching in the carpet beneath their feet. Tentatively, Derek inches one hand towards Stiles's spine and runs his fingers from the small of Stiles's back up to his shoulderblades. God, this is exactly like a middle school dance. He takes a deep breath. "Are we going to—do stuff?"

Stiles gives him a crooked smile, just a little tug at the corner of his mouth. It's not a smile Derek's seen before. "Oh yeah. I'm all lubed up."

Derek's brain stalls out for a moment. He thought they'd start with, like, handjobs, maybe. Something low-key, friendly, and then maybe they could catch up on _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ after.

"You could bottom, too, if you want," Stiles says, drawing back. "I just, usually—I mean, I thought, maybe—you could knot me."

"Knot you," Derek says faintly.

Stiles grins. "Come on, I've seen the porn. It looks _awesome_."

"Are you sure you can—" Derek hesitates. "Take it?"

"I may have, um, pregamed a little." Stiles shuffles back toward Derek so their dicks are almost-but-not-quite touching, thighs brushing together. He pauses, clarifies, "With my butt."

"Right," Derek says. His hands cautiously drift downward.

—

They had the condom discussion earlier, via text message, while Derek was trying to cook dinner and Stiles was bored, sitting in the car on some long-shot stakeout. The conversation went like this: _I know you don't carry any human diseases_ and _if it's okay_ and _I've always wanted to try it_ from Stiles, and _okay_ and _okay_ and _no on the handcuffs_ from Derek when Stiles started to wander off topic. Derek's always had sex with humans, wanted to keep them safe, comfortable—he hasn't done this before, either, skin-to-skin the whole way through. It feels a little naughty to be indulging his fantasies, but if not now, when? He trusts Stiles. He trusts Stiles with his dick.

"I want to use more lube," Derek says. His limited experience with sex with dudes suggests that more lube is good lube. "I just—I think it would be a good idea."

"Sure," Stiles says with a vaguely skeptical air, the air of someone who has not yet experienced a knot in his ass.

Derek has not yet put his knot in anyone's ass, or any other orifice. That was part of the sex-ed discussion with his mom where she looked deep into his eyes and said, _You might want to save that for someone very special, honey_ , and then his dad started speaking science again, words that Derek only vaguely understood, like _endorphins_ and _oxytocin_ , the same hormone that new moms experience when holding their babies. All he can think now is that Stiles is going to be holding Derek's dick in his ass like someone holding a baby, which is a very disturbing thought. He opens the lube and focuses on the lube. He can do this. Lube on fingers, fingers in butt.

Stiles is lying on the bed, pillow under his hips, ass-up in the air. He groans when Derek works a finger into him, like he's hurt, but when Derek pauses, he says, "I'm getting old here," in an exasperated tone. Derek adds another finger pretty quickly, although it doesn't feel like Stiles needs that much help. He's loose, relaxed with beer and his own efforts at smoothing the way. Derek is no longer thinking about his parents, about chemicals. His dick is so hard it hurts. He pushes in a third finger; Stiles clenches down on him and _whines_. He's so hot and tight and slippery enough that he'd need a caution sign if he were a floor.

"Okay," Derek says. "I'm going to—"

"Fuck me already," Stiles says in this ridiculous, rough sex voice, huffing in protest when Derek takes his fingers away. "If you don't I'm going to do it myself."

Derek lines up his dick and says, "You watch too much porn." Then he pushes in, faster than he means to, and Stiles just takes it, the way he's going to—Derek doesn't know whether it's better or worse, the way he already knows the end of the story, that Stiles is just going to take it and take it and take it until he's stretched tight around Derek's knot, the point of no return. Everything feels so _good_ , sliding into Stiles, leaning over him until Derek's braced on his elbows, keeping his weight off Stiles, shifting his hips slowly in shallow thrusts so this doesn't end right now. He can't help leaning down to press a kiss to the curve of Stiles's neck—neck kisses are probably okay, and Derek's mouth was right there anyway, almost, it could have been an accident. Stiles just sighs and tilts his head, giving Derek better access. Derek sucks a hickey at the curve of his throat—okay, maybe two—before he realizes that Stiles hasn't said a word since Derek slid into him. "You okay?" he murmurs.

Stiles makes a soft mewling noise and grinds his hips against Derek's, which isn't an answer. Derek lifts his head so he can see Stiles's face. There are tear tracks down his cheeks, what the _fuck_ ; Derek stops, hips hanging in the air, dick still half-sheathed in Stiles's ass. "Don't you dare," Stiles says, shoving back against Derek so hard that he almost tips over. "You gotta—you're gonna—" He gasps, clenching down with a sob. "Don't _stop_."

Derek shoves back, partly so neither of them fall off the bed or into the pile of blankets crumpled on top of the box with Laura's teapot collection. "You sure?" he says.

Stiles tucks his wet face against Derek's arm, panting. "You're gonna—you're gonna _knot_ me," he says. "You _better_ , okay."

A horrible thought occurs to Derek as he thrusts into Stiles again, careful and sure, surrounded by his perfect, slick heat. He can smell Stiles's emotions, his arousal, his joy, his excitement. What if Derek is drugging him with his dick? What if this is what his parents meant by—

"You're gonna _lock_ this _down_ ," Stiles groans, and then he clenches down on Derek's swelling knot and that's it, that's the show, and Derek tips over into the longest, guiltiest, most incredible orgasm of his life.

—

Somewhere in there, Stiles jerks himself off all over Derek's clean sheets. Derek rolls them on their sides so Stiles doesn't have to lie in the wet spot. His belly is still trembling with little aftershocks; he feels weak, wrung out, can't do anything but drape his arm over Stiles's chest and press his nose against Stiles's neck. "Mmmm," Stiles says, shifting, stretching, tensing around Derek, still tied inside him. "That was even better than I imagined."

Maybe Derek had it the other way around—he's the one who has the urge to hold onto Stiles and never let go. He's roofied himself with his own knot. "Yeah," he says softly. "That was good."

"We should do it again," Stiles says.

Derek rubs his toes against the sole of Stiles's foot. "Right now?"

"Thursday," Stiles says. "I'll bring another box of wine."

"Ah," Derek says.

Stiles reaches over the side of the bed, tugging Derek unwillingly along with him, and rummages on the floor for a moment. "I've got the last two episodes of _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ on my phone. Want to watch?"

Derek rubs his nose against Stiles's jaw. "You can even bring a real bottle if you want."

"Three-buck Chuck, just for you," Stiles says, half-turning to give him a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
